


Jupiter in retrograde

by Letha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meetings, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, PTSD John, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letha/pseuds/Letha
Summary: It has been known for several millenia that one was born with the name of their soulmate carved into their flesh, waiting to reunite with the other half by the holding of their hand.John Watson and Sherlock Holmes struggle with others' expectations in a world that condemns everyone to live in pairs or perish.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Long time no see. This is a WIP, which means I'll post as I go. The plot bunnies to this fic were several, scattered around the world that is Tumblr.
> 
> This work was betaed from chapter 2 onward by my lovely gf, Kate. Any and all mistakes are entirely my own. If you comment, bookmark, kudo it, or spread the love, you'll make my day. :)

The nightmares. Those were the tricky bits of what Ella, his therapist, said was PTSD. John would wake up more often than not breathless, craving to be on duty, yet feeling the bullet that pierced his shoulder making way through his flesh all over again. He sat up shaking, a pitiful sob bottling in his throat. As he blinked awake, he had to remind himself of where he was. 

 

Being back in London after going off to the Afghanistan war was exhausting. He hated especially the painfully dull routine he fell back to every single time he set foot on the peaceful city. John H. Watson knew he should be thankful to be in London permanently after quite a few years in Afghanistan, but the dislike and discomfort prevailed. He couldn’t understand why people would make the comment of "you're lucky to be home" every single time. And, of course, they couldn’t understand why he wanted to go back. The rush of adrenaline, the usefulness of his skillset by the battlefield, at a distance of the fight but still close enough that the bombs and rifles could be heard while he stitched up wounds and did his best to bring men and women back to life. Feeling like an invaluable asset to a team of patriotic fighters for freedom. 

 

London’s chill air was the one thing he had actually missed, however. He loved being able to wear his thick jumpers, to feel the bite of the cold on his face, to light up the chimney. In Afghanistan, it was mandatory for him use an army uniform, which meant so many layers in a place that was hot as Hell. And maybe it was just that: Hell. But it was, in probably what could be considered a very sick way he could never even voice in front of Ella,  _his_  Hell. It was a Hell he was familiar with. A Hell he was a part of, like one of the demons with his gun, like one of them, who would fix the tortured with his scalpel and bandages only to pat them on the butt to go back into the torture chamber. His Queen and Country had dictated for all of them to be in the battlefield, and making sure they could stay in it as long as it was possible was John’s duty. 

 

John lay back down and took several rapid breaths. The nightmare started to dissipate in his mind. In a way, he felt the healing scar on his shoulder was a heavy burden he had to bear with because of his doings at the front. It was a twisted payback. It was a reminder, as was his limp – however psychosomatic Ella said it was – that his duty had been fulfilled. That he was there when it all went wrong. That his comrades in arms had been killed and that he couldn’t do shite to save them. That he could not leave Afghanistan behind. 

 

He finally decided to get up. After a quick shower, he put the kettle on. Tea was one of the things he had missed back then. It was not the same to have a cuppa made out of re-re-re-re-used teabags and the extra crunch of sand in it as you neared the bottom of the mug. Yet now, in his cheap flat in the bad side of London, the kettle coming to a boil and the button popping, he had the chance to make tea the way he liked it, maybe even add some milk and sugar if he fancied some. 

 

He took his cuppa and an apple to the desk and sat at it. He took his laptop out of his desk drawer and tried pointedly to not acknowledge the itch to put the gun that lay underneath his computer into the back of his jeans. It started wheezing when he pressed the power button, and he let it buffer up. He chewed on some of his apple and opened his new blog. 

 

John Watson created a new entry about the drinks he had had the previous night with the rugby lads from Blackheath. He had left behind his phone, however little he seemed to use it these days. Who would he text, or call? His drunk and estranged sister? He had no other family to turn to, no friends who knew his new number (he had lost his phone before being sent to Afghanistan for the first time – something that had felt like a fresh new start), no phone numbers other than that of his sister and his therapist on the phone. 

 

He posted the entry and sailed out to retrieve his phone. He would probably have missed phone calls from Ella, but he had knowingly skipped his session after his mates hadn’t mentioned his limp last night; it was childish, he knew, yet it felt like he could forget for a little bit that he was back in London, all by himself, with a wound and a psychosomatic limp, if he just did not face his prying and poking psychologist. 

 

She often mentioned his soulmate, too, wondered whether he had gone out and searched for them. Every time she did so, he would cover the name on his arm with his hand. His soulmate did not deserve to be held back by John Watson. Sherlock, whoever it was, could do better than him; could be happy. John would not put his other half through the nightmares, the irrational need to go back into war, and the low income. He may have craved the company, but googling the name and visiting every single Sherlock in the world was scary and agonisingly expensive, he was sure. It didn’t matter how uncommon the name sounded to be. It was, possibly, probably, because his soulmate lived in a different country, and the plane fares would not prove affordable on an army pension, and anyway, let’s be real, who would want a broken army man for a partner? 

 

 

*******

 

 

Mike Stanford was one of the rare few people Sherlock Holmes could bear talk to. Under Mike's gleaming glasses, those quick eyes scrutinized everything, and Sherlock could tell he knew more than he let on. 

 

Talking to him while examining blood cell samples under a microscope was proving to be entertaining, until they breached the one subject Sherlock was not comfortable discussing. 

 

“Mate, I’m telling you. Finding Laura, my Soulmate, was the best thing that happened to me. Who would have thought that pretty gal I had pined for for years in High School would be my true love? I could not believe it last week, when I was at the pub and she touched my hand trying to take her drink. We both went mute. We saw each other for the first time. For her, it was quite literally the first time she saw me.” He laughed. Sherlock made a non-commital noise from where he was writing down notes. The holding of a Soulmate's hand could prove whether they were your actual soulmate or merely someone by the name of your soulmate, but what was the importance in it? If you were happy with them, would it make sense to put that love to a test like that? Touching the other's hand, risking everything for a confirmation... It seemed pointless. “You know what I mean?” Mike continued. Sherlock did not reply, and Mike just somehow _knew_. “Oh. I’m sorry mate. I didn’t realise you hadn’t— I'm so sorry. Should've been more thoughtful there.“ 

 

Sherlock glared at the sample he was examining. “For God's sake, don’t be obtuse, Stamford. I do not require a significant other to live just fine. I’m fine as it is, even if I do not find this mysterious John bloke, ever. I’m alright on my own. You can go on talking about your Soulmate if you'd like.” He took some more notes and went back to his microscope. “Besides. Who would want me for a partner?” 

 

Mike was silent for a long time, processing and respectfully staying away from such a question, until he asked how the hunt for flats was going, and Sherlock, thankful for the change in subject, replied about a place he had found, whose landlady was cutting him some slack about the rent because she was an old acquaintance. 

 

Sherlock looked at his phone when it chimed. He smirked. Molly Hooper, the forensic doctor, was telling him the corpse he needed had arrived. He put away his samples, said his goodbyes to Mike and made his way to the main entrance, where Molly was meeting him around ten minutes from then. 

 

When he got to the hall, the TV on the wall showed DI Lestrade and Sally Donovan in their conference about what the press was calling “Serial Suicides”, which was now being confirmed by the policemen: all three deaths were all linked, and finally they had caught up to that, when the Junior Minister of Transport had died. Taking out his cellphone, he corrected the DI by letting everyone in that room know he was wrong with a simple text message. He did so three times, before finally sending “You know where to find me. SH” to Lestrade and pocketing the device. 

 

The mortuary was quiet when Molly Hooper escorted him in. There was a black bag with a zipper on the silver table, and Sherlock Holmes felt the tickle of anticipation he always felt when beginning an experiment. She smiled, her thin lips trying to contain joy and anxiousness she couldn’t really hide – not from him, at least – and told him how the man on the slab was a former co-worker who had donated his body to science. It was useless to point it out when it was so obviously written on his body, but Sherlock nodded all the same. 

 

“We’ll start with the riding crop,” he said. Molly nodded left him to it. 

 

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and began to beat up the corpse. He did not want to be biased, but to measure his own strength with the body when each blow fell on the still not rigid flesh. More strength would be necessary to measure out whether his suspect had been able to commit murder. The hand the man kept in a cast, anyway, was his non-dominant one. That was why he let the words that had come out from Mike’s mouth, the pitying looks, the hatred toward societal norms forcing him to look for John, influence each new hit. Frustration and fury were good fuels, Sherlock knew. 

 

On his forearm, like an old scar, the name ‘John’ shone. Molly’s face fell when she saw it, but Sherlock did not mind. He knew from the start that she was not his soulmate, so what point was there to flirt back? He had never done it, nor would he ever do it. If the name her arm displayed was ‘Sherlock’, it was not him it was linked to. 

 

Molly came in and said something Sherlock did not listen to. He asked her to let him know the bruises that formed in the following 24 hours, making sure she understood that such data was of vital importance. She went silent and nodded, then took a deep breath and started to talk rushedly. 

 

“Listen, I was wondering. Maybe later, when you are finished...” she began, fidgeting with her hands. 

 

Sherlock frowned. “You are wearing lipstick. You weren’t wearing lipstick before.” 

 

“I... I refreshed it a bit.” 

 

“Oh. Sorry, you were saying?” He went back to writing down on his notebook. 

 

“I was wondering if you would like to have coffee.” 

 

Sherlock looked up. “Black. Two sugars. I’ll be upstairs.” With that, he pocketed his notebook and left the room. 

 

That should do, at least for now, to discourage her on pursuing him again. Maybe he could even ask the name of her soulmate and help her look for it or persuade her to wear attires that flattered her body more. She deserved better than a former addict who had become a Consulting Detective to avoid getting bored. 

 

He was lost in his experiments in the lab upstairs from the morgue when the door opened. 

 

Mike Stamford walked in with an army doctor. A retired army doctor. With what could very well be a psychosomatic limp. He asked for Mike’s phone to send a text, but it was the stranger who offered his. 

 

“This is an old friend of mine, _John_  Watson,” Mike offered, and of course it was a bloke named John, that little bugger. 

 

Sherlock very pointedly did not look at Mike when he crossed the room to retrieve the proffered phone, and decided the best thing would be to scare the lad away before Mike got his hopes up. Confirming there actually were distinctive tan lines of an army man below his wrists, and realising this was Mike’s offer for a flatmate, based on the second hand phone and John Watson’s condition, he took a deep breath. This was the usual sick joke of ‘let’s all torment Sherlock with a man he cannot have or share his life with; but let’s have him have an every day reminder that he is all alone among a sea of common named people’. 

 

So, to drive away yet another stranger his friends wanted to pair him up with as if they knew which was _his_  John, he asked, “Afghanistan or Irak?” 

 

John Watson looked at Mike, then back at him. “Sorry?” he barely managed. 

 

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

 

“Afghanistan. How did you—“ 

 

The door opened again, and Molly came in with her head down and a cup of coffee in hand. 

 

Sherlock thanked her and asked why she had taken off the lipstick, letting her know her lips looked better with it on, for future reference. 

 

He walked back to his experiment.  

 

“How do you feel about the violin?” 

 

John looked unsure what to make of such a simple question, and Sherlock repressed the urge to roll his eyes at his witlessness. “Sorry, what?” 

 

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” 

 

This John looked between him and Mike, and it was almost comical. “You told him about me.” 

 

Mike shook his head. “Not a word,” he said with a smug smirk. 

 

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” 

 

Sherlock started to put his jacket on. ( _Come on, John. You are as dull as the others. It could never work between us._ ) “I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and here he is, just in fresh after lunch with a friend who is clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan.” 

 

“How did you know about Afghanistan.” He said, statement, not question. Interesting. 

 

“Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow, seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” he smiled and pushed past John. 

 

John turned around. “Is that it?” 

 

Sherlock took a step back from the door. “Is that what?” 

 

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat.” Another statement. 

 

“Problem?” 

 

John chuckled. Probably because of exasperation. Then he listed, “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.” 

 

Sherlock faced the man, who only straightened further. Brave. Proud. Idiotic. Dull. 

 

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you have a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you disapprove of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He walked to the door and opened it. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winked and shouted his goodbye as he left. 

 

 

*******

 

 

John Watson stood, frozen, and looked at Mike. 

 

Sherlock. 

 

He cupped his arm. It couldn’t be that Sherlock. But to be honest, how many Sherlocks had he met in his life? 

 

“Yes, he’s always like that,” Mike said, and he was brought back to reality. 

 

John swallowed. “Sherlock Holmes, then?” He tasted the name as it rolled out of his tongue. He wanted to keep on mouthing it, but Mike was looking at him with a smug smirk, and this was far too private to let Mike witness it. He couldn’t do it now. Not now. 

 

Mike looked at him. “You alright there, Watson?” 

 

“Yes. Yes. I just...” He let out a breath he did not know he was holding. “He’s quite something, isn’t he.” 

 

Mike nodded, then got up with a clap of his hands. “Alright, mate. Gotta dash. Have a class in a few.” John nodded. 

 

“See ya later.” 

 

When Mike Stamford had left, John stood there awkwardly.  

 

Sherlock. His name was _Sherlock_ Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes was an irritating man. But golly, he was brilliant too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So much for ‘Nothing happens to me’. For a moment, before getting into the black car the caller ordered him to occupy, he thought of how shocked Ella would be that his next blog entry would be over four lines long._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my amazing girlfriend, Kate, who betaed this chapter for me and helped me see other dimensions to my project.
> 
> Any and all remaining mistakes are nothing but my own.
> 
> Sorry about the wait! If you comment, subscribe, share the love, kudo, or bookmark this work, I'll love you forever and beyond.

Googling your potential Soulmate and blogging about your meeting is neither childish nor crazy, John Watson told himself. However, it was with a sense of unease that he typed out the name he had known for his whole life, now followed by a surname, and pressed the 'enter' key.

 

What good would it do anyway? The man had not acknowledged any link with his own name, and the name of a soulmate was something one noticed, wasn't it? Granted, there are a gazillion Johns, yet so very few Sherlocks in comparison; the bloke must be used to running into potential soulmates all the time.

 

But this was ridiculous. He had decided not to seek his soulmate a long time ago, and he had reasserted that much that very morning. He was not worthy of any Sherlock, let alone this Sherlock, who seemed to be a genius and very active scientist. He would not pursue the man. He would pretend to be the wrong John if this actually were the right Sherlock. He would not show his mark. He would not go see apartments with the man and play house when he should be running away. He couldn't do it. He had to be strong, to avoid him.

 

But then Sherlock Holmes would realise, he was sure, that it was his name on John's arm. Sherlock would then chase him, would he not? Granted. If he were his Sherlock.

 

John rubbed down his face with a grunt before turning his attention back to the computer. The man was amazingly smart, going by his personal blog and the few news clippings he could find. He was interested in the oddest things, however. Like categorising tobacco ash. How was that even remotely interesting?

 

He looked at other entries and found unrealistic comments full of fake gloating. One could not identify people's professions with only one thumb, or one ear, or whatever. It was impossible. He must be a mad scientist or someone trying to pass for an intellectual. After all, he had sent from John’s phone a text concerning a man and a green ladder as if it was enough for an arrest.

 

However, he had been right about everything in that lab, and Mike had sworn he had not said a word about John to him. What did that make Sherlock Holmes, then? A genius or a fake?

 

He was hardly able to sleep that night. His excitement and intrigue were too present in his mind, butting away the dread and anger of having met a Sherlock when he was not ready for it or even interested in doing so.

 

He decided to go look at the flat, and if it was any good, he would mull things over that night. After all, Mike was right—London was his place in the world, and he could not afford it on an army pension.

 

Sherlock Holmes was arriving in a cab when he got to the door of 221 Baker Street. His hands were glove-clad, ( _Dammit, I should've done that too,_ John thought.) and when he offered one to be shaken, John took it eagerly. A bit too eagerly.

 

The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, opened the door. She was old enough to be their mother, and judging by how she treated Sherlock, it was clear she was very maternal toward him. She smiled brightly and greeted John with a gigantic grin too. He felt welcome and _cozy_ the moment he stepped in. Even when he realised Sherlock was waiting for him on top of the stairs, John did not feel self-conscious.

 

The flat was a mess, full of someone’s belongings. There was a dusty bookstand full of the most random titles, from Anatomy 101 books to Quantum Physics related books, as well as a few Shakespeare plays and sonnets compilations. Stacks of paper cluttered every flat surface in the room. A laptop sat a few steps away, plugged in to a charger. Regardless of this, the apartment was beautiful and bigger than his current flat.

 

He looked around with wide eyes. "This is very nice. Very nice indeed," he mused.

 

Sherlock agreed. "Yes. Yes, my thoughts precisely."

 

"Soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up,” John said, at the same time Sherlock continued with "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

 

They looked at each other, and John was mortified at the insult while Sherlock tried to tidy up the place with the moving around some papers and the stabbing of a knife on the fireplace. John was about to apologise, but he wondered why Sherlock had already moved in and when, given that it was supposedly not a set deal the day before. He did not comment anything, instead diverting his attention to a skull that sat on top of the fireplace.

 

Mrs. Hudson then said with a smirk, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two," and John blinked, wondering how much she knew, what Sherlock had told her.

 

John swallowed and stared at her. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.”

 

Bollocks, he needed to not focus on that. He needed to not think of this man as his Soulmate because who knew what Sherlock's arm read, and John was too broken, too worthless, too messed up to actually be considered boyfriend material. And that was okay. Sherlock, with his looks, his poise, his layer of strong armour – underneath which lay a vulnerable person, as John could see after the one comment about the state of the flat – could do so much better. And John wished he would.

 

***

 

After Lestrade came looking for him, Sherlock had run off to hail a cab. He was halfway down the stairs when he realised he had passed up a perfectly good army doctor at his disposal. He climbed back up the stairs and invited John over. He tried his best not to focus on John's mouth, or his moist lips, when he said yes.

 

They went down the stairs.

 

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. We’re off out.”

  
Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat. “Both of you?” she managed before Sherlock swirled around to face her, a grin like a cat on his face.

  
“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!” he said holding her arms.

 

Mrs. Hudson tried not to laugh. She chastised him, “Look at you, all happy. It's not decent.”

 

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”

 

In the cab, they sat far apart and in silence. John was intent on being interesting and relatable, and Sherlock was having a hard time pushing him way. John was silent, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, if not full on, when he thought Sherlock was not watching.

 

"Alright. You've got questions?" Sherlock asked, and John began to inquire about all the deductions Sherlock had gotten off his cellphone and limp.

 

When Sherlock explained his reasoning, his deductions, his observations, and his one shot in the dark that had hit home that first meeting at Bart's, John fell silent. It was the moment where most Johns got upset and called him a freak. This John, however... This John was sitting in the cab still, mouth agape first and then closed promptly.

 

"That... was amazing."

 

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. Surely he didn't mean it as a compliment? Although there were not many ways to say 'amazing' other than as a compliment.

 

"Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary." John looked out the window, then back at him, and he was astonished in earnest but not repulsed. Unlike the other Johns.

 

"That's not what people normally say."

 

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

 

"Piss off," he replied, and they chuckled.

 

They fell silent for the rest of the ride to the crime scene. Sherlock used the reflection of John’s frame on the window to inspect him in earnest. He was one intriguing man. He was not repulsed by Sherlock’s activities. He was hard to shake off. He was compliant about going to see a dead body in an unknown location, and not once did he ask why Sherlock was so giddy. He was an odd companion to have. But maybe he was a companion he could keep and just keep the Soulmate business platonic, if the name on John Watson’s arm was Sherlock.

 

And what if it was? What if the reason why John was there, in the cab with him, was because some unseen force of fate forced him to? What if John Watson was in that cab with him only because it was ‘the right thing to do’ according to society? Because one of the first things you learned in Kindergarten was to stick with your Soulmate through thick and thin? Because Sleeping Beauty’s arm read her Prince’s name and vice versa, so they waited for each other a hundred years, and that was it. They were happy ever after. And it was that simple--in the stories.

 

It was not that simple in real life. Sherlock Holmes was a solitary man. He enjoyed getting lost in his head for hours. He loved not having someone be a worry wart when he went out. He faced danger and revelled in it.

 

John Watson needed to go away. And he knew having him face a corpse was a bit too much, but he had to do this for both their sake. So John Watson could be free. So Sherlock Holmes could live as he wanted to live. John would call him a freak and dash off, or would get insulted, or most likely Mycroft would kidnap him at some point and terrorise him, – he could always count on his Big Brother – or it would just become too much. It would be too much to deal with an addict, to love a man who was not sociable, to face danger over and over and over again.

 

They got to the crime scene, and after Sally Donovan insulted him and he diminished her in front of John and everyone else, they went in. John was very compliant about inspecting the body. Very professional too. He did not make assumptions. He looked for cause of death as one would without knowing it was linked to other killings. It was admirable the way in which he handled himself. He asked Sherlock to explain his deductions without trying to hide he was entirely lost and then complimented him twice.

 

Sherlock couldn't help himself. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

 

John blushed, and his whole body seemed to stiffen minutely. "Sorry."

 

Sherlock smiled. "That's alright."

 

Letting John go was going to be hard.

 

***

 

He had fled, the arse.

 

John had come out of the crime scene on his own, looked for him after that display of brilliance, and Sherlock Holmes had bloody gone away. What an arsehole. He knew John couldn’t chase after him, what with the bad leg.

 

Or maybe...maybe he didn’t want to be followed. Maybe he meant to leave John behind, for whatever reason. And why was John disillusioned anyway? Wasn’t it for the best?

 

He saw the agent who had called Sherlock a freak and understood that maybe, just maybe, this was the reason why he did not want company. Maybe that kind of treatment was normal in his life. He had said in the cab that people told him to piss off when he went off reading the facts before him like they were obvious, after all. He doubted he was very sociable.

 

Sargent Sally Donovan, tried to convince John that extricating himself from Sherlock Holmes’ life was for the best, and John couldn’t help but agree with her—but for a different reason. Donovan thought that Sherlock was toxic, but in reality, that was John. However, the names she called the bloke, the way she treated him, the mistrust in his genius...it was awful. Sherlock clearly did not deserve all that, no matter what he had figured about her and that man.

 

He closed his fist tighter around his cane as Donovan talked to him. If John Watson didn’t know better, he would say he was feeling protective of his new acquaintance.

 

“You’re not his friend or anything,” she spit at him. John turned around. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”

 

“I’m—I’m nobody.” He faced her full on. “I’ve just met him.”

 

“Okay. Bit of advice, then: stay away from that guy.” Sally gave him an innocent look he was not buying.

 

“Why?”

 

Was this a normal reaction for someone finding a person with their soulmate's name? Even if that person wasn't actually their soulmate? Curse the scarce amount of Sherlocks in his life giving him so little experience of his own. He knew, after years of strangers' wide eyes and smiles after hearing his mundanely common name, that it was a huge deal, when a person came across someone with the same name as the one of their Soulmate. He had failed to notice, however, what it meant to them. He did not allow himself to imagine it. He had made up his mind that he was probably going to die alone or settle for another Soulmate-less person who was just as broken as he was and that it was what he wanted. No Sherlocks could make him change his mind on this subject. He didn’t want someone to be handcuffed to. He didn’t need someone who was his other half when he was a (broken) whole on his own.

 

However, this unexpected surge of protectiveness he felt toward his first Sherlock was stronger than the rational side of his brain.

 

“You know why he’s here?” Sally said, almost joyful at the venom she added to every word she uttered. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what?” She did not wait for a response. John fisted and unfisted his hand, held his cane tighter. “One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there.”

 

“Why would he do that?”

 

“Because he’s a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.”

 

John was about to reply how little she seemed to know him based on what she was saying, how John had seen so much more than the face he put on for them, when she was called back to duty.

 

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!” she advised him in a loud voice, and John’s frown was one of protective anger as well as confusion toward his mind’s inner workings. He shook his head to clear it and started to walk.

 

He was limping his way to the main road to hail a cab back to his own flat when he noticed that every single phone he passed rang as soon as he came within its reach. He ignored the first one, was unable to pick up the second one, and finally the third one rang, and John couldn't help but stare and stop in his tracks. The thought that the call must be for him at first seemed impossible, but it became more and more plausible as the third phone rang. He stepped into the phone box. It smelled like piss and stale air. He picked the phone up, and sure enough, the bone chilling voice on the other name said his name.

 

“Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?”

 

John looked at the CCTV camera that was pointed at him. “Yeah, I see it.”

 

“Watch,” the voice said, and the camera was turned to film a different part of the street. Then another, and another, and John felt the air in the piss-smelling phone box tighten. All cameras on him were turned away. A black car pulled up. The man on the other side of the call almost purred in his ear, “Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I’d make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is quite clear to you.”

 

So much for ‘Nothing happens to me’. For a moment, before getting into the black car the caller ordered him to occupy, he thought of how shocked Ella would be that his next blog entry would be over four lines long.

 

***

 

Mycroft Holmes liked to think of himself as a protector. He protected his country’s stability. He protected his privacy. He protected his fellow powerful people to the extent that he could. And he protected his family, especially his baby brother, from every harm he could foresee.

 

So standing in an empty parking lot before a man whose name was the same as Sherlock’s Soulmate’s was the logical thing to do. He had been in a similar position just the one time before, and the John of that moment was proven unworthy of his brother’s affections. He could only hope this time, when John Watson held his brother’s hand, it was the last time he would have to threaten or measure a suitor.

 

So far, this John was loyal to Sherlock in less than 24 hours of having met him. It looked promising. He refused, as Mycroft hoped he would, money to spy on him. He was curious about why Mycroft believed he would stick around longer than he thought. He was brave in the face of the unknown.

 

Yes, this was quite an interesting suitor indeed.

 

“What’s your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft asked.

 

“I don’t have one,” John replied and attempted (and failed) to cover his words with a blanket of innocence. “I barely know him. I just met him... yesterday.”

 

Mycroft smiled. “Mm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him, and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” He smirked. “Will you come out as each other’s Soulmates anytime soon? Or should we wait on you two? I just need to know so I'll get my tuxedo made by the end of the month if that‘s the case and you two consider an old-fashioned wedding.”

 

The brief alarm on his face when Mycroft suggested romantic involvement with his little brother, however, was a concern he felt compelled to look into. Shame. _It might take a while, then_ , Mycroft Holmes thought, _before John Watson and Sherlock Holmes try to measure their compatibility._

 

Even though he wanted desperately to pull up John Watson’s sleeve to confirm whether he was, actually, a plausible Soulmate for Sherlock, and even though Mycroft had been allowed to hold the army doctor’s hand to prove he actually missed thee battlefield, he resisted such an urge and let the man go. Hoping and waiting was all there was left to do. For the time being.

 


End file.
